Nevermore

Henry Lion Oldie

Nevermore

* * *

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

«Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,» I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore —

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven «Nevermore.»

E. A. Poe, «The Raven».

...Dead gray waves were running over the dead molten sand and with metronome precision rolling back to the horizon where the foaming sea medley touched upon the dull sky torn up with gaping atmospheric holes and whirlwind wells heavy with tornadoes. The sky was unwillingly spitting small, scarcely luminous splashes into the filthy spittoon of the Earth, the soil lightly smoking in the places of direct hits and cooling down with caked crust – it had been smoking for a few years, though. The wind was roaming along the coast, the wind was whistling in the dry skeletons of a few remaining buildings, the wind was stirring the dusty tulle of ashes, showing the bones buried under it. The sky was gazing at the remains indifferently. It didn't care...

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